The Speechless Crows

IN their bare winter elms the crows
Cry all day long with raucous voices,
So much alike that no one knows
Which crow complains and which rejoices.

Could we but learn the Corbie speech,
Should we not flock to hear them telling
Tales of old legend, each to each,
In the high fastness of their dwelling?

Or should we, not content to hear,
Lecture them long, with pure intention,
Teaching their pagan hearts to fear
A hundred Gods of man’s invention?

Should we not bring them books to read
Proving that men (and crows) are brothers,
But holding each a different creed
And roundly damning all the others?

Should we not wean them from their sloth
To mental toil or manual labor,
That wiser crow might dodge them both
And live by doing down his neighbor?

Should we not clothe their feathered flesh,
That, swathed in farthingale or wimple,
Crow might in web of lust enmesh
Crow whose amours were once so simple?

Should we not speak to them of Truth,
Before whose throne all mortals tremble,
That crow whose speech was once uncouth
Might, with more dignity, dissemble?

Alas, poor crows, unhappy birds,
Ignorant, heathenish, benighted!
Because we do not speak your words
Your lives must still remain unblighted.